


Femlock Shorts Collection

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ASD Sherlock, F/F, Femlock, First Time, Frottage, Heed warnings on individual chapters for more, Kissing, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Licking, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, PWP, Tribadism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2018-09-01 13:29:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8626297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: Basically I wanted a more permanent place to gather all my femlock shorts that I post on tumblr.  This will be an ever-growing collection.





	1. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Extra Chapter Tags:** fluff, head petting, brief domestic violence mention.

“Can I touch it?”

John looks up from her paper.  Sherlock is standing at the arm of John’s chair, twisting the tie of her dressing gown round and round the pointer finger of each hand, her cheeks a flushed pink as she bounces just a little on the balls of her feet.  

John sets the paper down in her lap.  “What?”

“Your hair.”

“What?  Why?”  

“You took a clipper to it.  It’s short—all over.”

“Yeah…”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“I want to touch it.”

John feels a now familiar warmth and tingling bloom in her chest, race outward, downward.  She sucks in a sharp breath.  “Why?”

Sherlock just shrugs.

“Tell me why, or you can’t.”

A small huff, and then something that almost looks like a half pirouette as Sherlock spins and stomps off toward the kitchen.  She stops at the threshold, turns back around.  “I like it.  It looks—soft.  I need to know—want to know what it feels like.”

John cranes her neck slightly to peer over the back of the chair.  “You ‘need’ to know.”

“Want.”  Sherlock clarifies pointedly.

John sighs heavily, eyes sliding shut.  She shakes her head in fond exasperation.  “Yeah.  Okay.  Fine.  You can touch it.”

“Excellent.”  And then Sherlock is there, standing behind her chair, reaching out, running one slightly cupped hand over the curve of John’s skull.  John feels tension melt from her body, tension she hadn’t even realised she’d been carrying.

It was a short clip this time—a #2.  There had been a bad breakup.  Sherlock claims she can judge the severity of a breakup by how short John cuts her hair.  She’s not half wrong.

Sean had turned out to be a violent drunk, and that was number one on John’s ‘Will Not Tolerate’ list, for obvious reasons.  He’d not taken kindly to her turning him down after a month, and there had been a skirmish.  Fortunately, he was also a clumsy drunk and John had combat training.

Sherlock had fluttered about her like a skittish kitten when she’d come back from the pub with a black eye, that night.  John is the doctor, the soldier.  John is the one who patches up Sherlock’s scrapes, and bruises.  It had been a bit of a revelation to see Sherlock so concerned—undone almost.  Consequently John has been much more indulgent with her lately.

Slow strokes, gentle, almost languorous.  John goes boneless.

Sherlock hums.  “It’s very soft…”  Her voice has gone soft too, a little drunk, a little reverent.  

Sherlock loves soft things.  John learned that the first week they lived together and she came downstairs, one morning, to find Sherlock absently rubbing John’s new fleece jacket against her cheek while she pondered their current case— completely oblivious to her surroundings, floating on some sort of cloud of sensory bliss.  John had gone out and bought a second one the next day, but Sherlock still always seemed to prefer hers.  She’d given up on personal boundaries after that.

“Feels nice,” John offers without really knowing why.  It does.  It’s just a fact, and Sherlock likes precise, clean facts.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees.  “Feels nice.  You relax when I do this.  You should ask me to.  It will help you sleep.”

John’s skin prickles.  “I’m fine.”

“You’ve had the dreams again lately.”  

Three more strokes, these ones traveling past her crown, all the way down to her nape.  John slumps forward almost involuntarily.  “Leave it.”

Sherlock’s hands pause for a moment.  “Sorry.”  She resumes petting.  

They say nothing more.

When John wakes hours later, there is a fire lit in the grate, and smell of Chinese take-away drifting up the stairwell on Sherlock’s heels as she clatters up from the first floor.

She smiles at John’s bleary-eyed, and slightly disoriented stare as she breezes into the room.  “You slept for four hours and thirty-two minutes.  Dinner?”

And John huffs out a small, fond laugh of appreciation.  Sherlock is magic this way, always seems to know what she needs, even when she doesn’t know herself.

“Yeah.  Starving.”


	2. It's All Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Extra Chapter Tags:** meltdowns, self-loathing, mild self-injurous behaviour, miscarriage mention, love confessions, taking care of one another, hair-pulling (non-sexual).

“You did your best.  You can’t solve every one.”

The florescent lights in the empty conference room at The Met buzz and flicker, and Sherlock buries her face in her hands, and pulls at her curls hard until they come free from the pins at her nape to spill over her shoulders.  And still she pulls.  Pulls and pulls.  The pain of it is better than the other pain.  The pain of failure, the pain of self-loathing, the pain of knowing that three people are dead because she is stupid, useless, not enough.  Never.  Ever.  Enough.

“Sherlock.”  John’s voice is steady, rock solid, but clipped—Captain Watson.  She’s still wired on adrenaline.  Her patience is short, and she hates it when Sherlock gets like this.  She hates it when she hurts herself.  “Stop it.”

Sherlock can’t stop it.  Because John doesn’t understand, not really.  She doesn’t understand what it’s like when her head is full, vibrating with a million reproaches, dozens of ‘what ifs’, all the potential that Sherlock has failed to fulfil.  And it wasn’t enough.  It’s not enough.  And people have died.  “People have died, John!”   _Loud.  Too loud.  Choked, and a little frantic_.  “People have died!”

When her forehead makes contact with the tabletop the crack is loud, the pain sharp and grounding.  It silences everything else—for a second or two.  Again.  Again.

“Sherlock, stop it!”

But she can’t stop now.

“Sherlock!”

“No…  No.  NO!”

Fingers forking into her hair, curling around curls, urging her head back, pulling hard.  Sherlock let’s her eyes slide shut.  

“You can’t solve every one,”  John’s grip on her hair remains tight, grounding. Her voice is gentle but firm.  “You can’t save everyone.  You tried.  You did your best.  That’s all anyone can ever do.  This isn’t your fault.  And you need to go home, wrap up tight, eat something, and sleep about 12 hours.  You need to stop this now.  You’re going to.  Doctor’s orders.”

“I can’t.”  Eyes still closed, but her head is quieting, and she _is_ tired.  John is right—again.

“Then you’ll let me help.  Understood?”

Sherlock nods the best she can with John’s grip still firm in her hair.  “Tired.”

“I know you are.  Come on.  We’re going home.  I’m telling Lestrade we’ll do the paperwork tomorrow.”

John finally lets go of Sherlock’s hair, and the loss of sensation is almost unbearable.  Sherlock whimpers.  It’s embarrassing.  John heard, too. She pauses, mid turn, and comes back.  “You were brilliant today.  It wasn’t your fault.”

And somehow Sherlock manages to open her eyes, to tilt her chin up, to look up at John’s face, swimming through the veil of full eyes.  John’s face is soft.  She smiles.  “You’re an idiot, but you’re brilliant, Sherlock.  No one could have done what you did today.  I know it, everyone out there knows it.”  John nods in the direction of Lestrade’s department.  “The only one doubting it right now is you, and that’s because you haven’t eaten in three days, and you’ve been awake for 48 hours.”  John steps forward and reaches out a hand.  “Come on then.  Up with you.”

Sherlock lets John help her to her feet.  She lets John wrap an arm around her waist and guide her out onto the floor.  “I’m taking this one home.  We’ll be back in the morning to wrap things up, yeah?”

Lestrade doesn’t argue.  Sherlock knows she’s a sight.

In the cab Sherlock leans against John’s shoulder.  She drifts.

“You’re lucky I care so much,” John eventually murmurs, low enough for only Sherlock to hear.

“I know,” she somehow manages in return.

John grows quiet again.  For the longest time there is nothing but the hum and tap of the tires over the concrete, and the swathes of orange light slipping up John’s thighs in even intervals as they pass beneath the street lights.

Finally, John’s fingers inch across the seat between them, and mesh with Sherlock’s.  “Thank you.”

“Hmm?”

“For letting me look after you.”

Sherlock doesn’t understand.  John is extraordinary in all things, and with extraordinary often comes mystery.  But John must read her confusion in the tension of her body, or the small catch in her breath.  She squeezes Sherlock’s fingers between hers briefly.  

“It means a lot to me.  You’re the only one who let’s me.  You know how Mark was.”

Sherlock does know.  She doesn’t want to think of Mark now, of John’s year away from her, of the baby John lost and how it all changed her.  She is just starting to feel that she’s gotten John back.  “Mmm…”

“Sorry.”

“No.  It’s—it’s fine.”

“I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”

“Good.”

John snorts, and then laughs—properly laughs.  A bark of a thing followed by the loud, guttural cackle that Sherlock loves so much, and hasn’t heard in almost 2 years.  She furrows her brow and tilts her chin up to look at John’s face.  She can’t help but smile.  John stares back down at her and smiles just as bright.  

“Fair enough.”

“Why are you laughing.”

“Because you’re mad, and perfect, and I love you.  Christ I’ve missed this.”

Sherlock blinks.  She sees the exact moment John realises what has just come out of her mouth.  Her smile fades.  She swallows dryly, and something changes behind her eyes.  “I do.”  Barely a whisper.

“Good,” Sherlock says again.  It’s not the right thing to say.  But John doesn’t seem to mind.  

She reaches up and brushes the hair away from Sherlock’s forehead.  “Yeah.  It is.  It’s all good.”


	3. Domestic Adventures

Sherlock loves evenings like these.  

John comes home from the surgery exhausted.  She grunts out a greeting as she throws her coat on the chair by the door, and then heads down the hall to the loo for a bath.  When she emerges she is always loose limbed and fragrant.  She favours bergamot and vetiver, and Sherlock thinks it leaves her smelling like a an autumn stroll through the woods with a cup of Earl Grey.  

Sometimes John will go get something to eat.  Other times she will simply collapse in her chair, head thrown back, legs flung wide, and heave a sigh of relief before scooping up a book, and leaving Sherlock free to look her fill.

Tonight is a cooking night.  The scent of John begins to mingle with mushrooms and garlic, chicken and white wine.

Sherlock gets to her feet and meanders into the kitchen.  Her feet are bare, her dressing gown open and hanging haphazardly over one t-shirt clad shoulder.  

It’s been a lazy, irksome day, one where nothing seemed able to hold her interest, and all she could think about, all day, was John.  John at work.  John with a stethoscope slung over her neck, and a forced smile on her face.  John staring at the clock on the wall, counting down the minutes until she could get out, be free of the stagnant atmosphere of the surgery and the job she hates.  

John looks up, looks her over and frowns.  “Did you do anything today?”

Sherlock reaches up to touch her bird’s nest of curls, suddenly self-conscious.  She pulls a curl loose, and twists it around her finger, before sucking it between her lips.  “Experiments,” she mumbles around the strand of hair.

“Experiments?”  John sounds incredulous, but the corner of her mouth twitches upward as she turns away to scrape the mushrooms and garlic out of the frying pan and into the pot with the risotto.  She puts the lid on and then turns back around, leaning back against the counter, eyes sweeping over the whole of Sherlock’s person, yet again.  

Sherlock feels her cheeks pink.  “What?”  She slips the piece of hair from her mouth, and crosses her arms across her chest.

John just smiles and shakes her head.  “You.”

“What about me?”

John huffs, and stares down at the floor.  “You’re just a sight for sore eyes after a long day, that’s all.  All that sterility at the clinic, and then I come home, and you’re here, and…”  She trails off, and looks up again.  John smiles, not her usual cocky grin, but something soft and fond.  “I mean—just look at you.”

Sherlock knows her cheeks must be flaming.  She swallows tightly, her eyes flitting away to the floor, the refrigerator, the ceiling, anywhere but John’s earnest, dark-sea eyes.  “I look the way I always look.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t underst…”

“I know.  Just take my word for it, okay.  You’re the best part of my day.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say to this.  No one has ever said such a thing to her before.  Often times she is the worst part of people’s day.  But then John is swiftly proving to be the exception to everything she has ever experienced, and she’s rather keen to see just exactly where it is all headed.

John winks ( _winks?_ ) at her, and then turns around, and pulls two highball glasses down from the cupboard.  She fills each one half way with the wine, and then turns back around and holds one out to Sherlock.  “Join me?”

“In a drink?”

“In a toast.”

Sherlock takes the offered glass, raises it when John does the same.

“To domestic adventures.”

“Domestic adventures,” Sherlock agrees without knowing exactly what it means.  But, whatever it is, it’s put a gleam in John’s eye and a mischievous grin on her lips, and it takes Sherlock a minute before she realises she has forgotten to take a sip.  

She watches John over the lip of her glass as she does, and something in John’s eyes makes every inch of her skin begin to tingle.

Oh…

Domestic adventures, indeed.


	4. Untitled PWP (4-16-18)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is curled around Jon like an anxious cat, her tiny limbs, twined with Jon’s longer ones, clenched tight, her fingers kneading the side of Jon’s head, the pillow beneath it, face pressed into Jon’s neck, hot pants against flushed skin, whimpering—actually whimpering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New tags for this chapter include: Oral Sex, First Time, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Penetrative Sex, Kissing, Masturbation, Tribadism, Nipple Licking, Frottage, PWP.
> 
> Needless to say, this chapter pushes the rating up to Explicit.

Sherlock is curled around Jon like an anxious cat, her tiny limbs, twined with Jon’s longer ones, clenched tight, her fingers kneading the side of Jon’s head, the pillow beneath it, face pressed into Jon’s neck, hot pants against flushed skin, whimpering—actually whimpering. 

The sound throbs and thrums through Jon’s body, through heart, and bone, and blood, as she traces a finger down the length of Sherlock’s spine, lightly down the cleft of her arse, and then back up again, as she presses nose and cheek into the riot of Sherlock’s curls and sighs with the overwhelming wave of relief, that they are finally here, finally doing this, that it is wanted, that Sherlock is not shuddering, blinking blankly, not flitting away, retreating to her mind palace, or trying to pretend the touches never happened. 

Instead she is clinging, pleading without a single word for Jon to touch, to caress, and hold, and tease to the surface all the sensations she has been avoiding—all her life, from what Jon can tell.And why now?Why Jon?Jon wishes she knew.Perhaps she will ask, but not now—not now.

Jon shifts a little, and Sherlock settles down on her thigh, slick and hot—gasps, head snapping up, eyes wide.

“You okay?” Jon whispers.Why, she doesn’t know.They are alone in the flat.Mrs. Hudson is away at her sister’s.It’s raining outside, a steady downpour, a constant thrum against the roof and windows, a white rush in the gutters.

Sherlock’s breath is quick and shallow.Her eyes glisten.And Jon’s heart aches, and aches, and aches to…

She reaches up, and cradles Sherlock’s cheek.“It’s okay if you want to stop.”

Sherlock shakes her head vigorously, curls bouncing, even as the tears break free to course down her flushed cheeks.Jon wipes two of them away with her thumb.

“Tell me what you want?”

But Sherlock only shakes her head again, and buries her face back in Jon’s neck.She shivers, and Jon reaches down and pulls the blankets up and over them.

“Move if you want to move.”Jon shifts her thigh a little, just enough to make her suggestion clear.Sherlock huffs against her neck, and Jon can feel the wetness of her tears, still flowing, the wetness between her thighs spreading over the top of Jon’s leg, as Jon’s long arms reach down, cup around her arse, knead, and stroke. 

Sherlock moves, a small rock of her hips, a gasp, another, a whimper, another, and Jon lifts her thigh, encouragement, friction, as Sherlock grabs onto the pillow beneath Jon’s head like she’s drowning and falls into a rhythm, her skin, sweat-slick, gliding over Jon’s, her breasts brushing against Jon’s with each rock.

Jon moans in spite of her resolve, and Sherlock presses up on her hands, and drops her head with a gasp.There is a bead of sweat, running from her nape down, around the front of her neck.It reaches her suprasternal notch and drips down onto Jon’s chest.“I—I…”

“What do you need?”

“I—Jon, I….“But there are no words, only a long, high moan that breaks at the end, a sound Jon has never heard from Sherlock’s lips before, wild, abandoned, nakedly desperate.It splits Jon wide open, sends heat throbbing down from her core.She wraps her free leg around Sherlock’s, and thrusts up, seeking friction of her own.

Sherlock’s eyes are tight closed, her hands pressed into the mattress, either side of Jon’s shoulders, holding her up as she uses her own meagre weight to give herself the added pressure she needs.

Jon reaches up, slides her hands over Sherlock’s ribcage, and Sherlock gasps, her eyes snapping open once again, looking down at Jon, once again, eyes heavy-lidded, tears still leaking from the corners, almost drunk, lips parted…Jon reaches up, and up, and gently thumbs over pale, pink, peaked nipples, and nearly comes when Sherlock cries out, and rocks faster, so wet that Jon can feel it running down the inside of her thigh, now, and onto the sheet beneath.Faster and faster, frantic, chest heaving, head thrown back.And then she cries out, a sharp thing, slightly strangled, like a wounded animal Jon thinks with some alarm, before gasping, sobbing, and making a sound that might be laughter or might be grief, and collapsing against Jon’s chest.

Jon pulls her in, wraps her up, and soothes.

“Shhh…It’s alright.It’s okay.I’ve got you.Shh…”

Sherlock trembles atop her, rocks her head between Jon’s breasts.“I—I need…”

“Yeah?What do you need?”

“It’s not—enough.It’s not enough.”

“What isn’t?”

“This!”So desperate.“It aches.”

Oh. _Oh…_

“You need to come again?”

“I don’t know.”

“You need to come again,” Jon states with confidence.“Do you trust me.”

Sherlock nods against her chest.

“I’m going to touch you.”

“Like before?”

“That, and—other things.More.”

Sherlock nods again.

“Lie on your back, okay.”

And Sherlock does, without question, wholly pliant and trusting, so unlike how she usually is with Jon, with everyone: testing, questioning, pushing back and away from everything.Here, in this place, in this moment, blinking up at Jon through damp lashes and red-rimmed eyes, she is wholly given over.

“I’m going to make you feel so good.I promise.I promise you.”

“It aches.”

“Okay.Well, let’s fix that then, yeah?You tell me to stop if it’s not good.”

Sherlock nods, and Jon dips down and kisses her.It’s soft, and slow, and sweet, not like their first kiss, a month prior, when Sherlock’s lips had crashed against hers in the cold, impersonal, white marble echo chamber of the Royal Bank’s outer lobby, blood on Jon’s thigh, blood on Sherlock’s hands, her eyes wild with fear, and grief, and rage.

Jon kisses Sherlock’s sweet, trembling lips.She swallows down the sighs that escape, and licks the tear salt away, and then moves on, down the line of her jaw, into the curve of her neck, over one shoulder, back, down, gently, gently, to the peak of one nipple.

Sherlock’s back arches, one hand shooting down to fist in Jon’s short-cropped hair, the other drifting subconsciously downward, seeking to ease her own agony.But she seems to catch herself, stop, self-conscious, just as her hand reaches her belly.

Jon glides her tongue across her nipple, sucks tenderly.Sherlock’s fingers twitch against her belly.

“Touch if you want to touch,” Jon breathes against damp flesh.“Touch yourself.It’s okay.I don’t mind.”

Sherlock tosses her head on the pillow.Her face is scarlet.She does do that—touch herself.Jon has heard her, but they don’t talk about that, they’ve never talked about that, and so Jon doesn’t push it now.She returns to the task at hand, tongue tracing a slow circle around one areola, as she crawls between the set of small, pale thighs Sherlock has just thrown wide and welcoming.Hip bones jutting up in invitation, and Jon finds them with the flat pads of her thumbs, presses down, moves in slow, tantalising circles, as she kisses, and kisses Sherlock’s breasts.

“Oh.Oh…”Sherlock’s hips rock upward, and Jon smiles against Sherlock’s skin, kisses each peaked nipple in turn, before trailing those kisses downward, over tensed abdomen, against the dip of her navel.Sherlock keens and strains beneath her as she teases her tongue just inside, promises of things to come, a request, perhaps…She stops, after a moment, to rest her chin on Sherlock’s flat belly.

Sherlock’s chin snaps downward, and she scowls.

“Just wanted to make sure everything was still okay,” Jon murmurs.

Sherlock’s bow of a mouth presses into a tight line.“Stop being obtuse.Of course it is.Stop stalling.”

Jon barks out a laugh, and Sherlock’s frown fades into a small, quirking smile.“Please,” she finally begs in almost a whisper.“I want you to.I need you to.Please, Jon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”Her cheeks flush again, and she looks away, down to the sheet beneath them.“And if you wanted to…That thing you were doing—with your thumbs, just now.”

Jon grins, and presses a firm circle against her hip bones.“You mean that.”

Sherlock swallows dryly.“Yes—“ breathless.“It’s good.”

“Mmm,” Jon hums, and continues while dipping her chin down to kiss Sherlock’s belly again, to move lower still until her lips meet the dark thatch between Sherlock’s legs, still wet, juices glistening like dew amongst the curls.Jon’s mouth waters.

Just a taste—salty, musky, sweet.Jon buries her nose there, dips her tongue in, and finds the bud of Sherlock’s clit almost immediately.Sherlock’s hips jerk as her tongue slides over it, and her grip in Jon’s hair tightens.

“Please…”

Jon’s never heard Sherlock beg a day in her life, but now, suddenly tonight—this.And how many times, now, has that been?Three at least.Jon secretly wonders how many she can tease out before the night is through. 

She takes her time plunges her tongue from the tip of Sherlock’s clit, down deep into the folds of her, hot, and tight, and wet, slips her tongue inside, just a little, goes heady at the feeling of Sherlock’s body pulsing around her, burns at the sound of Sherlock’s whine, high and thready, goes weak as Sherlock fists her hair. 

She’s growing wet herself, and she rocks against the mattress beneath, feeling the way she slicks the fine Egyptian cotton smooth, wet, instantly, with the evidence of her own arousal.

Sherlock’s fingers flutter near her fringe, and Jon looks up.Sherlock looks wrecked, curls plastered against her flushed face, eyes glazed.“Touch.You can touch yourself, Sherlock—while I’m down here, doing this.Show me what you need.” 

Sherlock shakes her head.

“Okay.Okay, but if you want to.”

When Jon goes down on her again, she slides her tongue back up to lave and suck on her clit.Sherlock cries out, and Jon groans against the fresh surge of wetness against her chin, and the echoing rush of wetness between her own legs.

“Jon, oh.Oh, god, oh Jon.Please.Please…”

Jon hums against her clit, sucks, and licks, in a rhythm that seems to be swiftly driving Sherlock toward the edge, and Jon is reaching her limit as well.She can’t help the way her body seeks out it’s own pleasure, rubbing against the mattress beneath her, her hips rocking in time with Sherlock’s now near frantic pace.

Jon comes first.It surprises her, crashing into her suddenly, full body, galaxy bright, and she moans deep, and long, and guttural against Sherlock, smears her mouth messily against her wet folds, trying desperately to keep up her previous rhythm even as she loses all ability to think, or breathe, or move.

But it doesn’t matter, because the sounds she’s making seem to drive Sherlock over the edge she’s been teetering on, and Jon feels her fingers tickling the tip of Jon’s nose as she finally, finally reaches down and gives herself what she needs.

Jon lazily slides her arms up under Sherlock’s thighs to cling to the top of her hips, and presses her mouth back against the entrance to Sherlock’s body.She wants to feel it against her lips, around her tongue when Sherlock comes, she wants…she wants…

She feels the moment it finally grips her.The rhythm Sherlock is rubbing against her clit falters, and then quickens, and then her back arches off the bed, and her thighs tighten around Jon’s head in a vise-like grip, as she pants, and moans, and cries out Jon’s name again and again, pulsing around Jon’s tongue, against her lips.Jon goes light headed from the lack of oxygen, and can’t even bring herself to care.

Sherlock’s thighs tremble, and shake, and then finally drop.Her breath is quick and shallow, and remembering how she had been after her first orgasm, Jon doesn’t waste any time.She crawls up her body, bringing the blankets with her, pulls Sherlock in against her chest and tucks her dishevelled head beneath her chin.

“Hey, heyCome here.”

“Jon…”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Jon.”

Jon presses her lips to the top of Sherlock’s head, and pulls her closer.“You okay?”

“I—I’m tired—I think.”

“Yeah?Me too.”

“Jon?”

“Mmm?”

“Will you stay?Here, in my bed?Will you?”

“‘Course I will.”

She feels Sherlock relax, all the tension melting from her body, and she nuzzles in closer and raises a hand to gently cup Jon’s breast.“You were right.”

“Was I?About what?”

“I did need to come again.”

Jon chuckles, and feels Sherlock smile against her chest.

“See, I’m good for some things after all.You should trust your doctor.”

Sherlock tilts her chin up, and pulls back a little.Her face is still horribly flushed.She almost looks feverish, Jon thinks as she reaches down to smooth the hair back from her damp forehead.

“You’re good for a great many things, Jon.Not, just this.Though this was—good, very good, exceptional, even.But you are good, Jon.You’re invaluable to me.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything.

“And I do trust you.I would never have—this wouldn’t have happened between us, if I didn’t.I—I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Jon feels a wave of fondness wash over her.“Why me?”

“Because…”She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and how could Jon possibly be dense enough to not know.

“Yeah, you’re doing the thing.Because why?”

“Because you’re you.”Just like that.So simple, and yet not simple at all.

And it doesn’t makes sense, but Jon supposes that maybe it doesn’t have to just now, with this small, fierce, vulnerable, brilliant woman wrapped up in her arms, the taste of her still sparking against Jon’s lips, the memory of their shared pleasure still thick, and heavy between her thighs.

“That so?”

“Yes.”

Jon smiles.“Well—good.That’s good.”

Sherlock smiles wide and bright, then, stretches up and presses her lips to the tip of Jon’s nose, and then pulls away to blink up at her.“Do you think that maybe you might like to do it again?”

Jon grins.“Yeah, I’d say there’s a fair chance of that.”

“Good.Roll over.”

“What?Now?You mean now?”

“Of course now.I want to try that thing you did with your tongue.”

Of course she does.Of course…

It’s nothing Jon ever expected, and yet everything she’s dreamed.It’s Sherlock, her genius, her friend, her partner in crime, but most of all, the woman she loves, and she wouldn’t want her any other way.


End file.
